


Jurisdiction

by rispacooper



Category: Psych
Genre: Collars, Dom/sub, Established Relationship, Jealousy, M/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:26:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some written real-quick porns. On a trip out of town, Shawn stumbles into some trouble, but even when not in Santa Barbara, the rules of the game don't change. That summary is stupid. I'll just say PWP.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jurisdiction

**Jurisdiction** (ju.ris.dic.tion)

 

Pronunciation: _ju_ -r-әs-'dik-shәn  
Function: noun  
Etymology: From Latin jurisdiction-from juris + diction, dictio act of saying

 **1:** the power, right, or authority to interpret and apply the law  
 **2 a:** the authority of a sovereign power to govern or legislate **b:** the power or right to excerise authority: control  
 **3:** the limits or territory within which authority may be exercised; the geographical area over which a court of government body has the power and right to exercise authority

Synonyms: see _power_

 

The Sheriff's office in San Gabriel was as nice as the station in Santa Barbara, though Shawn didn't think that overall there was much difference in the quality of law enforcement.

Despite the boring tan uniforms most of the men and women there were as committed to truth, justice, and all that as their better-dressed fellow cops in Santa Barbara—and just as unwilling to listen to Shawn's totally reasonable claims that the “accidental” deaths in their county were actually the work of a killer carnival worker with a vendetta against the people responsible for shutting down his carnival.

Shawn hadn't wanted to believe it either; he was only in the area for the Fried Chicken and Waffles Festival, not to take on a case he wasn't even getting paid for, or to end up dangling precariously from a rusted Ferris wheel, or to have his amazingly brilliant intuitive leaps be doubted.

He'd moved past that, and he really didn't have the patience to retrain a bunch of new cops to his way of thinking. Though perhaps retrain was a strong word. It was really more of a complicated ritual of visions and teasing and taunting that was always required before a certain stubborn detective felt safe enough to publically agree to what he'd already privately decided to do.

Shawn didn't know why Lassi bothered pretending anymore; Shawn so owned him, but no, the man insisted on acting like he didn't know what Shawn was doing each time, and it was getting just a little ridiculous.

Maybe Shawn ought to trade up. Benji—Sheriff Benjamin—was six feet of tall, dark, handsome, duty-bound cop, with eyes that occasionally flashed with temper and strong, chocolate hands that had been itching to cuff Shawn all weekend.

With that in mind, Shawn peered up carefully as Benji leaned over him, as his fingers touched softly at the edges of the bandage at Shawn's temple.

“You should see the other guy.” Shawn leaned back into his chair, thought about propping his feet on Benji's desk but that might be too much considering that he could tell that Benji was _finally_ considering taking the cuffs off him.

Benji withdrew his hand and scowled down at Shawn so fiercely that even with his hands behind his back, Shawn squirmed in his seat.

“Your supposed “Mad Carnie Killer”?” It wasn't exactly a sneer, but Benji did arch one eyebrow, if only for a second. Shawn sat up anyway. His shoulders ached, but he knew better than to complain. That was for later, after he'd impressed the man with his psychic genius. There was a proper order to these things, even in San Gabriel. Because there were certain rules that Shawn enjoyed following.

“Okay, maybe the guy isn't “mad”, but he is a killer. What did the coroner say about that third victim, by the way?” Benji froze and Shawn grinned at being right. “Cotton candy in his nose and mouth?” he guessed without really guessing since he'd already known that. “The spirits are sometimes confused but they never lie.”

Benji let out a frustrated breath. Shawn decided to keep going since he was on a roll.

“Could I get that water now? Or maybe a Cherry Coke with one of those little plastic monkeys on the rim of the glass? I'm really thirsty.”

“You take a lot for granted, Mr. Spencer,” Benji remarked, straightening files on his desk that didn't need straightening. He had a desk as neat as Lassi's, though it was in an actual office with actual walls and an actual door. Benji might definitely be an upgrade. He drank black coffee, he had a smooth, sweet head, and he drove a black Camaro when not on duty, which Shawn was shallow enough to find completely hot—very Lane Meyer.

“Like that somebody would be around to rescue you. You're lucky I got there in time to break most of your fall and you only got that.” He turned around to graze his fingertips across Shawn's bandage. The cut was deep enough to bleed and throbbed against the push of his fingers. Shawn held his breath, then pulled back with a friendly smile.

One touch was concern. Two was just flirting, even by normal people standards.

“Well the spirits forgot to mention hooded figures with guns chasing me through an abandoned carnival straight out of Scooby Doo.” Shawn lifted his chin. “Though I know what you mean. Normally I have people with me, Gus—my mighty detective in arms, and...the SBPD. But I'm not exactly in my zone right now.”

Their Sheriff's Department didn't have any Spanish style arches or decorative tiles and orange-pink walls. There _was_ a big, sweet-faced deputy and a hot redhead at a desk outside, but not a single suit to be seen.

“Damn right!” Benji leaned back in, the leather of his holster creaking. Shawn shifted in his seat again. “I don't know what—if any—authority you have in Santa Barbara, but you and your visions have no jurisdiction here.”

“Whoa there, potty mouth,” Shawn said seriously, watching Benji run an angry hand over his shiny scalp. The guy was tense, as tense as he'd been since Shawn had landed flat on top of him at the foot of that wheel and without taking even a second to enjoy the position had insisted that the Mad Carnie Killer—the name was just cool—had been there.

Of course, the killer had been nowhere to be seen by the time Benji had shown up. The killers always did that, and then Shawn had to work harder to get a response from the cops. Those were also the rules; he guessed location didn't matter.

“Jurisdiction is...nevermind.” The Sheriff's mouth tightened. He was pretty mad and Shawn smiled. Like he needed to have jurisdiction explained to him.

“I don't suppose you want to hear about my vibes about the man's age, name, and location?” he wondered innocently then made a face when Benji looked speechless with annoyance. “I guess I can wait until you finally trust me, or until he kills someone else, your choice, Benji-kitten.”

“Mr. Spencer!” Sheriff Benjamin was impressive when ticked off. He put both hands at the back of the chair—and coincidentally putting his arms around Shawn at the same time—and shoved until Shawn and the chair were nearly against the wall. Shawn could feel the man's breath on his throat, against the stunning bit of man-jewelry he had started wearing recently that some less enlightened individuals might have called a necklace.

“Official psychic or not they ought to keep you on a leash,” the Sheriff snarled breathlessly, not doing bad at all at the game, even if he hadn't threatened to punch Shawn in the face or shoot him even once. Shawn sighed sadly over the shoe-scuffing sound in the doorway that meant people arriving. Then he raised his voice.

“Believe me, Benji, I keep trying, but so far no one will take me up on it.”

“Uh...Sheriff?” Shawn and Benji turned at the same time to see the big, sweet deputy standing awkwardly in the doorway next to a stone-faced Lassiter.

“Lassi!” Shawn called out loudly, maybe too loudly. Lassi looked good, not that he could have changed much in the two days Shawn had been out of town. He had on a suit—the dark one that made him seem especially intense—and flashed his badge without taking his eyes off Shawn or saying a single word.

“This is Detective Lassiter of the SBPD,” Deputy Sweetcheeks was explaining. “He says you called him about...” He nodded at Shawn, smiled brightly when Shawn smiled brightly at him. There was one in every station; maybe location really didn't matter.

“See, Benji, I told you I didn't work alone. I called—well you called him for me—and he came running, like a good Lassi-face.” That was also the way of things.

Lassi's eyes flared, then narrowed at either the nickname or the idea that he came running to save Shawn. Shawn lifted his head and then, just like that, still without speaking, Lassi turned away to meet Benji. Shawn stuck out his lower lip.

“Ah, Detective Lassiter.” Apparently Benji couldn't wait to distance himself from Shawn either. He walked quickly over to the door. “I'm sorry to call you so far out of your jurisdiction...” He paused at Shawn's snicker. Lassi's jaw just clenched tighter than usual. “How was your drive?”

He put out a hand. Lassi didn't take it.

“Long,” he snapped, and even though he wasn't looking at Shawn, Shawn shivered at how low his voice got—levels of pissed usually reserved just for Shawn. “Why have you cuffed our psychic?”

Benji went still for a moment, then pulled back his hand. Shawn felt his mouth drop open, felt a throb somewhere besides his head wound.

He knew it wasn't personal, that cop disputes were all about territory and dick size, but it was fucking _hot_ just the same.

“And why is he bleeding?” Lassi went on, practically purring, or was it growling? Shawn couldn't be sure, wasn't sure he cared. The chair was hard against his ass. He squirmed some more anyway while the two men stared at each other.

Then Deputy Sweetcheeks let out a startled, shocked, sort of uncomfortable laugh and wasn't the only one who blinked.

“So he really is a psychic.” Sheriff Benjamin's voice had cooled a little. Shawn glanced over at him, then looked back to Lass, who snorted.

The tension in Benji's shoulders eased a fraction at the sound. Shawn felt a line form between his eyebrows, straightened up to make sure they hadn't forgotten about him.

“I didn't say that.” Lassi was as seriously stubborn as ever.

“Now, Lassi-pants, you know better than to doubt the spirits. They always believe in you...” Shawn objected and then jumped so hard he nearly fell out of the chair when Lassi pointed at him without sparing him a glance.

“Shut up!” he ordered and Shawn made the smallest possible noise as he rocked in his chair. Not quite a moan, but close. Sometimes he needed things to hold him back, things like handcuffs. It was so obvious really.

“Mr. Spencer here seems convinced there's a killer on the loose and claims to have been assaulted by the man earlier today.”

“No no no, I just ran from him—er, eluded the suspect—and that's how I ended up on the Ferris wheel,” Shawn explained. Lassi's eyebrows drew together.

“What did I say, Spencer?” he asked finally, breathing hard, still not looking Shawn's way. Shawn wet his bottom lip this time before he stuck it out again in a sexy, kittenish pout.

“That sometimes when you're in a pool, you still think Jaws is swimming up behind you and you freak out and swim like hell for the ladder?” Of course, he ruined the pout by smiling at his own remark, but he had a feeling his flirting had not gone unnoticed. Lassi could be observant...sometimes. Hopefully now was one of those times.

The hot glare aimed at him had nothing pretend about it and Shawn gulped. His necklace moved against his skin as he did, like a finger softly stroking him. He arched his neck, lifting his head. He would have brought his hands up, but they were still cuffed behind him. Keeping still this long was driving him _crazy_. He looked at Lassi and felt himself trembling.

“Lassi, the killer is real, I swear.”

“I told you to be quiet.” Lassiter seemed so straight and tall, even next to Sheriff Benjamin. His suit was so _dark_ and _serious_.

“Actually, you told him to shut up.” Deputy Sweetcheeks was being helpful. Shawn had forgotten he was there.

“ _Actually_ ,” Sheriff Benjamin clearly hadn't, and overrode him while continuing to stare at Lassiter. Who could blame him, Lassi was hot. “There's nothing out of the ordinary about these deaths, aside from the number of them.”

“Lassi,” Shawn whispered urgently but this time Lassi successfully ignored him.

“And the cuffs?” he went on smoothly, making demands in a police department that wasn't his station, and totally nodded in understanding when Sheriff Benjamin shrugged. Shawn let his jaw drop.

“For his own protection. He slipped out the last time he was in custody, and that was when he ended up at the carnival and fell off that rusted old Ferris wheel.” Benji jerked his head at Shawn as he explained and the deputy hopped forward to unlock the handcuffs. Shawn stood up slowly now that he was free of this official custody and protection and made a show of working his shoulders and rubbing his wrists. From the corner of his eye he could see Benji run a touch over over his sweet head. “He also says he does this all the time. Seems dangerous, without anyone to keep him in line.”

Shawn was at the wrong angle to see Benji's face, but he could see Lassi's, and the white-hot flash of anger in his eyes at something Benji was implying. Lassi clenched his hands into fists and Shawn jumped forward, hands out.

“Benji, believe me, usually Gus would have been there but he had some conference thing and anyway he has a childhood fear of carnivals since the nightmare that was “Super Girl”.”

“What?” The Sheriff twisted around.

“Well, it was a horrible movie. Though I've always had a soft spot for Helen Slater.”

“Seriously, you solve cases? I don't understand when you have time between the movie jokes and the inappropriate comments,” Benji demanded, then shut himself up with a speed that should have made Lassi proud. Lassi's mouth just tightened more, until it was a flat, pissy line.

“Lassi's been considering a muzzle, because the cuffs just aren't doing it for either of us anymore,” Shawn answered instantly, distracting, turning in time to see the color enter Lassi's pale cheeks, and then blinking to see how hard Lassiter's chest was moving up and down. A second later he yelped dramatically as Lassiter grabbed him by his shirt and hauled him forward.

“Thank you for calling me, Sheriff,” Lassi said, calmly for a man who had to talk over the surprised and insulted and yet completely dignified noises Shawn was making. He yanked Shawn closer and then pushed him toward the door. “Is there somewhere I can speak to Spencer alone?”

“Of course.” Benji's mouth twitched up, which seemed strange, but Shawn didn't get much of a chance to study it. “Just down the hall. There's an empty office.”

“Thanks again.” Lassi actually flashed a rare Lassi-smile and then released Shawn. The smile disappeared in the same second. “Spencer...” he began in that same growl, and Shawn felt himself snapping to attention. He swallowed, waited. “...Move,” Lassiter ordered after a pause that Shawn wasn't sure anybody else noticed, and at the first hint of Lassiter's body heat at his back Shawn _moved_.

He turned around, walking backwards and letting Lassiter push him into a straight path when he almost veered into a wall two or three times.

“There really is a serial killer, Lass, or at least a very disturbed former Tilt-A-Whirl operator,” he tried, hands in the air, and Lassi frowned.

The empty office was on the right; Shawn had seen it during his first visit here yesterday. He went right, well, left for him, still talking about spirits and how the victims had been killed in ways that only _seemed_ accidental.

“But they'd all been part of a group campaigning to finally get the last of the old carnival rides torn down which is too much of a coincidence. And cotton candy—hasn't anyone seen “Killers Klowns From Outer Space” but me and Gus?”

“That's enough,” Lassiter interrupted him once they were in the room. Shawn hit the desk in the middle, still backwards. Lassi closed the door behind him, didn't bother turning on the lights.

Shawn stopped, swallowed. His man-jewelry slid against his skin, the beads gently teasing him. Or maybe it was all that close body heat making him extra sensitive.

“You're still bleeding.” Lassiter breathed out and even in the near dark his eyes were blazing. Shawn put up his hands, palms out, placating though he and Lassi both knew that Lassi already believed him. Those were the rules of the game, always had been.

“You see, Lassi...”

“Shut up.” Shawn shut up. Lassi came forward, poked at the bandage until Shawn winced.

“Hey!”

“You fell off a Ferris wheel,” Lassi stated, and it sounded...harsh and scary when he said it, merciless. He ran another touch along the gauze, this one lighter, softer. The wound pounded again, blood surging to the surface, and Shawn leaned forward, shivering. Lassiter's eyes only continued to blaze. “Where is Guster? Where's Henry? Your cell phone?”

“San Diego, probably at some old guy bridge game, and in my pocket.” It was difficult to meet those pissed off blue eyes. After a second, despite himself, Shawn's gaze fell.

“You could have _died_ , Spencer,” Lassi informed him through gritted teeth.

“I...”

“Died!” Lassiter's fingertips had blood on them from where the gauze must have soaked through. He lowered that hand and shoved Shawn's shoulders, hard. Shawn was already against the desk, had nowhere to go.

He looked up, had a feeling he was frowning and that his mouth was hanging open.

“Lass...” He couldn't even finish the name. His wrists were sore, bruised, he held them up and tried to look pitiful but Lassi batted them away.

“Died confronting some psycho carnival worker and when I drive out here I find you wooing the local sheriff with your crazy crap routine!”

“ _Wooing_?” Lassi's body was hot, muscular against his, urging Shawn into the desk. What was left of Shawn's blood pooled there below his waist, throbbed, and it was even harder to look up now. He made himself do it anyway, forced himself to add a grin for the old-fashioned word choice. “Well it doesn't take much. You law and order types need someone around to slap the cuffs on and I needed a strong cop type to rescue me.”

“That right?” Lassi's breath was sugar and coffee, his growl low and pointed. “Any cop would do?”

Shawn shook his head, suddenly too dizzy to think of lying or dodging, only knowing that this was different.

Lassi was hard against him. Shawn was hard too.

He gasped, sort of because people had to, in this situation, and because speaking of dick-size, Lassi was _big_. Like holy crap. Like King Kong or Gigantor, or every dream Shawn had had since first having sex with a guy at eighteen that didn't involve pyramids and sun god robes and a thousand naked women throwing lots of little pickles at him.

Lassi ought to be blushing, but Shawn was the one burning all over and not trying to escape or struggle even a little for the Spencer name. Lass was done pretending; Shawn was suddenly shaking all over at the realization, could barely stand. Lassi was there to hold him up. Well, Lassi and the desk.

“He does have broad shoulders,” he managed at least a small tease, and Lassiter grabbed both of his wrists, wrapped his fingers around the red marks and possible bruises left by the handcuffs, squeezed. A moment later Shawn was turned the other way, bent facedown over the desk. He made a shocked noise—or tried to—it had more than a little shameless slut to it really. He thought maybe Lassi agreed with that assessment, judging from the man's heavy breathing and the “A little tramp, aren't you, Spencer?” grunted into his hear and the “I knew it” sighed against his neck when Shawn rubbed himself against the wood.

Lassi still had Shawn's hands trapped behind his back and Shawn lifted his head, did some heavy breathing of his own.

“Are you going to cuff me too?” He wasn't sure he could take that, being cuffed in the backseat of Lassi's giant, roomy, less sexy but far more practical for actual sex than a Camaro, car, all the way back to Santa Barbara, unable to touch or deal with his serious erection—at least not until Lassi let him. The thought alone might just ruin him for anybody else. Lassi was mean enough to do it.

He squirmed in a delicious sort of way at the idea, then went still when Lassiter snorted.

“You'd like that, wouldn't you, Spencer?” he asked but he already knew the answer, and his voice did things that made Shawn shiver, shudder, too much because Lassi pressed him down for a moment. “Don't move.”

Lassi pushed closer—big cock to Shawn's ass—and let go of Shawn's hands. They fell on their own to the surface of the desk. Shawn didn't move them other than to curl his fingers. Even that was too much, too obvious. That was probably why Shawn did it.

“I said don't move,” Lassi reminded him and Shawn heard the crack before he felt the sweet, burning shock head right to his dick or the echoing feel of Lassi's open hand against his ass. Lassi didn't wait for the heat to bloom before he moved his hand back again, smacking Shawn hard in the same spot.

Shawn got his mouth open, but that was all. His hips were crushed against the desk, his cock a freaking red-hot iron, his balls tight.

But Lassiter stopped, and even needing to, Shawn couldn't move. He made a small, shameless noise, let that speak for him.

“Anything else to say now, Spencer?” Lassi wondered, calm for a man currently spanking another man, who knew exactly what he was doing to Shawn, and Shawn tried to catch his breath before he turned carefully back to look at Lassiter—without taking his hands from their braced position though he considered it, just to feel Lassi's reaction. But Lassi was already pretty angry.

Lassiter was breathing fast and loud, probably flushed, but he glared as fiercely as he ever had in Santa Barbara, and Shawn hurriedly turned back, stared at the wood underneath him until he had every knot memorized. It was impossible to catch his breath. He gave up, no point in pretending when Lassiter already knew everything there was to know.

“Um...Thank you, Sir, may I have another?” he joked and jerked forward when Lassi went for the other cheek, hit it, good and hard. Shawn sank his teeth into his bottom lip, groaned quietly. It was only the denim that muffled the noise of his spanking, moaning in ecstasy right now would bring this to an end way too soon.

“That isn't what I want to hear.” Lassi paused again, ran that same light, soft touch along Shawn's very warm backside. Shawn's whole body throbbed in response.

Shawn shifted, just a little. Blinked. This was really happening. This was _finally_ happening. He'd laugh, but he was too busy _not_ writhing and begging for more.

“What...” He had to wet his mouth. “What do you want to hear?”

Lassi bent over him again and for a moment, Shawn would swear Lassi's fingers looped into his necklace, pulled it taut around his throat.

“Little psychic hussy like you?” he mused, still far too cool, and something about that Victorian, _Lassi_ word made Shawn bring his head up, inch his legs apart. “...You should already know.”

“I _am_ a psychic,” Shawn agreed—lied—quietly. “But why am I a...” He had to clear his throat, but his voice still dropped, turned husky with how turned on he was, “...hussy again?”

Lassi _did_ pull the necklace, collar-tight, and Shawn deliberately swallowed to feel the man-jewelry dig into his skin. He was so freaking _hard_ ; it was like everything he'd ever wanted, rough, illicit police station sex, with Lassi giving it to him, strong and controlled.

“You know why.” Lassi actually growled before he let go of the string of very manly beads and Shawn dropped his head, exhaled. He was obviously shaking, didn't care. Then he pushed it, because he was on a roll here.

“Because I watch Stabler on _SVU_ too intently?”

Lassi's hand landed on him again, forceful, sure, calm but with that surge of need and anger underneath it, like when he had stood in that doorway and watched Benji touch him. Shawn spread his trembling legs more, bowed his head until he could almost kiss the desk, which was something to think about for another time, something to get Lassi to make him do.

Though he was pretty sure Lassi only had to say “Kiss the desk, Spencer” and he would. He wasn't sure if that said he was a tramp or said just how hot Lassi was like this. Like how when he didn't say anything right away, Lassi spanked him again, taking Benji's advice and keeping Shawn in line in the best way possible.

Shawn didn't think he could manage a laugh, but he could still talk. Maybe.

“Because I didn't wear underwear today?” he tried and didn't catch his moan in time. Lassi's hands were big too, and oh, he hadn't liked hearing that. Or had liked it too much.

“Spencer...” Lassi breathed, and it wasn't like Shawn didn't know what to say, but that this felt so _good_. But he knew he wasn't patient enough to keep it going. Not today, not like this.

“I'm a hussy because I came to this town and solved a case and flirted with the local sheriff like a naughty Badge Bunny right in front of you,” he admitted baldly, not embarrassed enough to shut himself up.

Lassi didn't even hesitate, he slipped a hand to Shawn's hip and pulled Shawn flush against him.

“Again,” he growled, fitting that magic cock right against Shawn's hot, stinging ass.

He really was a tramp. Wouldn't Henry be upset to know that?

“I'm a hussy,” Shawn gasped out, sliding his hands forward. One of Lassi's hands instantly clamped down over his, held him still. The other came off his hip, curved around Shawn's neck. Lassi's palm was warm, rough.

“That's right.” And Shawn didn't have anything, they couldn't. But when he didn't move away, didn't even attempt to fight the hand at his neck, Lassi rocked once against him and Shawn couldn't have stopped his mouth if he'd wanted to.

“Oh yeah, I'm a dirty, little psychic tramp.” Shawn nodded, whispered, because the desk was hard, but so was he, and Lassi needed to touch him, and soon, and if that's what it took, then okay, everyone would come out on top...or just come.

Lassi leaned in, sugar and coffee on the back of Shawn's neck. Shawn arched into him then held still, shaking underneath all of that heat and muscle, the gun digging into his side, cock pressing into his ass. His jeans were the only thing keeping him from screaming for some bareback lovin'. His jeans and the cops in the rest of the building.

“What else?” The soft question slid beneath his shirt, better than a hand, breezed across his nipples.

“I...” Shawn's mind was stuck on _nipples_ and _cock_ to be honest. He tried to focus, gave up when Lassi took that hand off his neck, brought it down over Shawn's other hand on the desk, used his strength to force Shawn closer to the wood, to stretch Shawn out beneath him.

“You almost got _killed_ ,” Lassi bit out, and slid his fingers between Shawn's. Shawn shuddered for the words, but held him there, not moving, because Ferris wheels were surprisingly high off the ground when you were dangling from them, because he'd had one hand to use his phone and Lassi had been too far away; he'd _had_ to call someone else.

“I'm sorry,” he held back the words, but only barely, and curled his fingers around Lassi's instead.

“You worked a case in another town,” Lassiter added, and Shawn nodded, fast and furious, needing Lassi to see his agreement, because jurisdiction was all about territory. And that's what he was, territory. _Lassi's_ territory. Even Benji had known it; Lassi had made it clear enough to the whole country. The whole state. _His_.

“Lassi,” Shawn forced the name out, and Lassiter shook his head, pushed against him, punishing and forceful and scared to death, like a worried Lassi, because Shawn hadn't said it yet.

He shut his eyes, smiled because Lassi couldn't see it. Like there was any doubt.

“Yes, Lassi, I'm _your_ little hussy psychic tramp.” If he'd worn underwear today, they would have been soaked through by that first rough spank. By the time Lassi had snapped his name, said “Spencer” in that voice that always made Shawn stop even when he could run.

“Mine,” Lassiter immediately bit against his skin, then arched up, hands sliding over Shawn's back, returning to his hip, moving on to his fly.

“Yours,” Shawn echoed, because Lassi had driven for hours to come save him, because his fingertips had Shawn's blood on them, because nobody else did this to him. “No other cops,” he admitted on his own, his skin flushed and raw, with that “Badge Bunny” ringing in his ears.

Lassiter unzipped him at the confession, but Shawn said it again, and more, at the first touch to his dick, “ _Peanut Butter Jelly Time_! Please yes, Lassi, yours, just yours,” a hot, wriggling mess thrusting obediently into Lassiter's big hand because Lassi would make this good for him. Lassi pulled him up off the desk and Shawn let him, biting his lip then moaning like a sex kitten when Lassi's other hand yanked up his shirt and touched his nipples for real.

He got his arms up and back, around Lassi's neck, keeping that mouth at his ear so he could hear Lassi panting as he made Shawn come.

It _was_ good. The best. Better when Lassi's other hand worked down to squeeze Shawn's hip, all out of words. Or down to one.

“Benji?” Lassi grunted, jealous, angry, hurt, making Shawn shut his eyes, shake his head as he gasped and jizzed over his stomach, between Lassi's fingers.

“Lassi,” Shawn corrected, sucking in air at the same time, then collapsing heavily against Lassiter's body. Lassi caught him, like he was supposed to, and Shawn took a minute to enjoy his position.

He waited until his vision cleared to try to speak, finally dropped his aching arms, but when he did Lassi moved, pulling out a handkerchief to clean his hand and then turning Shawn around to get Shawn's stomach too.

Shawn allowed it, for a minute or two, leaning his sore and well-used ass against the desk before he grabbed Lassi by his suit and tie and pulled him close. Like a good Lassi, he let himself be lead.

“This is what you left for the weekend to do?” Lass grumbled until Shawn opened his legs, and _by all things tropical flavored_ , Carlton was still so _hard_. And Shawn was so thirsty.

“No, I left for waffles and fried chicken. I think murder just follows me around.” Jokes were required, even when his voice was rough and his hands were taking the soiled handkerchief and tucking it away in one of Lassi's coat's inner pockets. Lassi put his hands to the desk for a moment, not-coincidentally putting his arms around Shawn at the same time. Then he was running hands over Shawn's wrists, down over his ass, petting lightly when Shawn sucked in a breath, though Lassi would of course never call it petting.

“That...is a disturbing thought, Spencer,” Carlton remarked and Shawn wrinkled his nose before glancing carefully into Lassi's face.

“You believe me about the killer, right?” He knew Lassi did, but sometimes he needed to hear things. Lassi ought to understand. Carlton made a sour face, which meant, yes, he did, but Shawn didn't grin this time.

“I'll go out with you to that...carnival...to look for clues,” Carlton allowed at last, frowning, and Shawn let a small smile slip out. It made Lassi's frown grow fiercer. “You shouldn't have gone there alone,” he went on, and for his sake, so he could see, Shawn nodded, at least _appearing_ obedient. That was part of the rules too, the part that made it so much better when he disobeyed anyway and Lassi had to punish him. Though the almost dying part he would skip from now on, when he could.

Lassi stared at him like he knew what Shawn was thinking, then looked away before Shawn could try an innocent expression. “I'll...talk to your...Sheriff.”

“ _My_ Sheriff?” Shawn twitched. “You didn't take that seriously, did you?” He shut himself up there. He already knew Lassi had. His ass was proof.

Lassi just lifted an eyebrow before looking back at him. Shawn squirmed when the urge to writhe under that glare was just too strong.

“Okay, so I called him to come rescue me.” He huffed, but didn't move, didn't say anything for a few moments after Lassi reached up to lightly touch his bandage again.

“If you do that again, Shawn, I will shoot you in the face,” Lassiter threatened, purred, growled, and Shawn pulled back, made a show of grinning over the warm shock of heat that shot right to his heart. A threat of shooting with an “in the face” emphasis...his Lassi said the nicest things.

“Do what again? The almost getting killed thing? Or the flirting with the locals part?” He did _not_ say Badge Bunny, because he wasn't, and because he knew Lassi really meant the first one, the Shawn almost getting killed one. Lassi scowled stubbornly.

“Take your pick.”

“Nuh uh.” Shawn shook his head. “Look at these results.” He waved at the room, his ass, Lassi's cock, and in the near dark he could still see the sudden blush and glance around.

“You said before...you wanted _this_ and from the obvious hints you were dropping out there...” Lassiter stopped, embarrassed, and Shawn shifted, rubbed himself against the desk. Carlton lifted his chin. “I am _not_ putting you on a leash, not even once in a while, not even in private.”

“And we're not doing this at work either,” Shawn reminded Lassi of Lassi's own rule. Carlton was such a liar sometimes, but Shawn didn't really mind the ritual, not when he already knew Lassi would agree.

“This isn't our station!” Lassi objected and Shawn nodded. A technicality, but true. There were no arches or pink walls, but he had already learned that location didn't matter as long as Carlton was with him.

He put his hands on Lassi's shoulders and pushed. When Lassiter took a startled step back, Shawn dropped to his knees. Lassi made a weak noise, glanced at the door like now he was worried that someone might walk in.

Shawn kind of hoped someone would, so they could see. The thought had more than a little shameless slut to it. He didn't really care. He was Lassi's shameless slut; Lassi would kick some ass if anyone said anything. Well, if anyone _else_ said anything.

He looked up before he popped free buttons, slid down a zipper, then grunted at the way Lassi's fingers instantly fell to twist through the necklace he had given Shawn a while ago and pulled it tight, like a collar. Like a leash, really, if Shawn were being honest.

Lassi was tall and serious and intense in that dark suit that he wouldn't admit he liked just because Shawn had picked it out for him. But _Oh Mylanta_ he looked good in it. Shawn didn't mind sitting on his legs, staring up, waiting, not as long as he didn't have to wait too long.

“Say it,” Lassiter ordered gruffly, sweetly through his embarrassment, just like Shawn loved, and Shawn grinned before running his hands up over Lassi's legs, over his waist and stomach, the suit. _His_.

“Lassi.” The rest was obvious, and he leaned forward at the thought, swallowed around the Cherry Coke sweetness and the weight on his tongue in order to feel Lassi's jewelry wrapped around his throat. For the world to see, wherever Shawn went.

Lassi just couldn't admit it yet, even if Shawn and Benji and the imaginary spirits all already knew the truth—in any station, with any amount of force and cuffs and bonds around his neck, even on his knees or bent over a desk, Shawn so owned him.

Next time this was going to be even better.


End file.
